Raymond Benson - Doubleshot

Dr. Feare frowned. “I thought that you were off-duty. Medical leave.”

“Never mind that,” Bond said. “Please, is there somewhere we can talk?”

She looked at him closely, noting the amount of stress his face revealed. “You’re right, you don’t look well, Mr. Bond. You have dark circles under your eyes.”

“Sleep deprivation,” Bond said. “It’s the bloody headaches. They’re becoming worse, and I don’t think those pills you prescribed are doing anything for me. And … well, I seem to have experienced another episode of blacking out.”

“What do you mean?”

He didn’t want to mention seeing the double just yet. “I got a feeling of overwhelming anxiety—almost like I was having a heart attack—as well as a pounding in the head. Suddenly, I passed out. I woke up an hour or so later, and I couldn’t remember what had happened. The odd thing is that I’dmoved. I was n’t in the same place I was when I blacked out.”

“Mr. Bond, you should have called me immediately,” she said. “How long has this been going on?”

“Just today.”

“I see. Perhaps you should come upstairs. Letme have a look at you.”

He followed her into the building. She greeted the porter and led the way through the luxurious marble-floored lobby area. The clinic’s waiting room was to the left, now closed and locked, of course. He followed her straight ahead into a lift, where she pressed button number 5.

Dr. Feare’s flat was a modest one-bedroom with a living room, kitchen, bathroom, and a dining alcove. It was tastefully decorated in green and white, but it was also decidedly feminine, and very comfortable. A large rug covered the living room floor. A glass-top coffee table was the focus, and a green leather couch and two chairs surrounded it. A television and stereo system stood in the corner, near the window.

She took off her jacket and flung it over a chair. “Have a seat in the living room, Mr. Bond. Make yourself comfortable. I’m going to make some coffee. Would you like some?”

“That would be lovely,” he answered.

She went into the kitchen. Bond removed the jacket, followed by the shoulder holster, and draped them over a chair. He then stood idly in the living room, glancing at the various knickknacks and pieces of art on the walls. Dr. Feare evidently liked to collect miniature elephants, as she had at least two dozen of them on a silver tray.

All of them were posed so that they had their heads raised, trunks in the air. The elephants were made of various substances: glass, silver, wood, onyx, even gold.

“When the trunks are raised like that, it means good luck,” she said, bringing out a small tray with cups and a bottle of mineral water. She placed it on the coffee table and approached him.

“First of all, do you have your medication with you by any chance?” she asked.

“Yes,” Bond said, sitting on the sofa. “And please call me James. I haven’t taken this evening’s dose yet. I thought I should talk to you first.”

“Let me see your pills.”

He took the small container out of his pocket and handed it to her. She opened it, poured a few into her palm, nodded, then replaced them. She handed the container back to him. “Just checking to see that you had the right pills. Go ahead. Take four tablets instead of two.”

“Now?”

“Yes, James.”

Bond swallowed four pills with the water.

“Good,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

He watched her move back to the kitchen, admiring the shape of her hips. She was a lovely woman. Despite her youth, there was something comforting about her. Bond found her very attractive.

A few minutes later, she brought in a coffeepot and they sat on the couch together.

“Black, please,” he said. She added a little cream to hers, but no sugar.

“Is the headache worse before these episodes?” she asked.

“Yes. I’ve had only one other blackout, if you recall. Three months ago. What could have caused it?”

“It could be a number of things,” she said. “We don’t call it a blackout; we call it poriomania, a condition in which the patient suffers a loss of cognizance, yet his body continues to function normally. It’s uncommon, but it happens, especially with raging alcoholics and people who might have post-traumatic epilepsy, which we considered before. Normally it occurs six months or later after an injury, but in your case it was much sooner.”

Bond didn’t like the sound of that.

“James, I suggest that we run some more tests. I’d like to do another EEG. That lesion in your head may not be shrinking like we hoped. Must you leave the country tomorrow?”

“Yes. It will have to wait until I return.”

“But James, you have a dangerous condition. You might never know when you’ll have another episode of poriomania.”

“I promise not to drive. Last time you told me that my symptoms could be stress-related. I’d like to believe that. I’m convinced that if I get out of this bloody rut I’m in and get back on the active duty list, I’ll be fine.”

He realized that he inadvertently gave away the fact that he was indeed still on medical leave.

“I see,” she said. “Then you don’t have to leave tomorrow.”

“It’s personal,” he replied. “I need to go.”

“I’m not sure that’s what you need, James. You must take this seriously,” she said, placing her hand on top of his. She hadn’t meant for it to be an intimate gesture, yet neither of them could deny the electricity they felt. Encouraged by the look in her eyes, Bond raised the charm a notch by turning his hand and squeezing hers.

“Or perhaps I need a different kind of diversion,” he suggested. He gave her a smile that penetrated her defenses.

Whether or not it was due to the wine she had consumed earlier, or perhaps to the immense amount of charisma that he had, Kimberley Feare suddenly felt vulnerable. She tried to tell herself that he was, after all, a patient, but his overwhelming masculinity instantly crushed that delineation. He was one of the most attractive men she had ever met, and she was alone with him in her flat.

Bond knew enough about women to recognize when the barriers were down. The seduction of a woman had everything to do with attitude, not looks or wit. Bond reflected—just for a moment—how unprofessional it might be for her to sleep with him. Most women in her position would have resisted going this far. Bond chalked it up to her youth and enthusiasm, and, giving himself a small boost to his ego, to his experience with the opposite sex.

He turned to her and put his arms around her. She looked up at him, her mouth parted. Her lower lip trembled a bit, and he could feel her shaking.

Bond brought his mouth down on hers and roughly held her against him. She submitted with a soft moan, then opened her mouth to receive his tongue. They kissed passionately until she finally, gently, pushed him away.

“Mr. B—James, please,” she said, breathlessly. She took a sip of coffee, then said, “Uhm, tell me more about your, uhm, condition.

You said you haven’t been sleeping well?”

“That’s right,” he said, lightly brushing a strand of blond hair from her face.

“Any hallucinations?”

Bond hesitated.

“Seen anything unusual? Things that shouldn’t have been there?” she asked.

“I’m not sure,” he replied truthfully.

She reached up and rubbed his eyebrow slowly with her thumb, as if to brush away something caught there.

“Feelings of paranoia?”

Bond closed his eyes as she continued to massage his forehead with both thumbs. “Mmm hmm,” he answered.

“James, we have to do another EEG.”

She rubbed his temples with care for another thirty seconds, then stopped. She was unsure how to handle the situation or her desire.